Unraveled by Him (26 page)

I struggle to process everything Robert is telling me, everything that this means about Georgiana, their marriage, what it means to him, to me, to both of us—but I fail, dismally.

Understanding as always, Robert does his best to clarify everything for me.

“Georgiana was never a true submissive, Miranda. She was a liar, an actress, a charlatan, but never a submissive. Somehow, by some stroke of luck, she had discovered who I was, and, now aware of the extent of my fortune, my power, had devised a nefarious scheme to divest me of everything.

“She used my craving to find my own special submissive as a weapon to get everything she wanted out of me.

“When I was thinking more clearly, I asked myself whether I had been her first victim. Or was I the second, and William Masters the first?

“Did she pretend to William Masters that she was a true submissive, and in that guise, for her own twisted reasons, go along with his command that she become a hooker in a fantasy parlor for one night?

“Then, when a trick of fate brought the two of us together in Le Château, did she recognize me and decide to try to take me for all I’ve got? I’ll never be sure. All I know is that Georgiana pretended to be a submissive but was quite patently the reverse.

“And apart from attempting to rob me, she took away my belief that I could one day find the submissive woman of my dreams, a born submissive, who was real and true and craved to be dominated by me to the same degree that I craved to dominate her.

“Then one day, years later, a girl in a bunny outfit delivered a manuscript to me, a manuscript so erotic that I knew without a shadow of a doubt that even if I had to put out a search warrant, I had to find the woman who wrote it.

“Then you contacted me, and I thought that you were heaven-sent.

“But then that wreath with that message arrived that first night in Geneva.”

“I remember, Robert,” I say, darkly, “How could I forget? And I always wanted to ask you what those French words on it, the words that drove you away from me so suddenly and so dramatically, actually said.”

“Just nine words, Miranda, but the message was clear. Someone, who obviously knew about us, and who knew about my past with Georgiana was sending me a warning.”

“What? How?”

He clears his throat.

“The words on the wreath said, ‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.’ Meaning that the more things change, the more they stay the same. And those words, cryptic as they may be, said everything to me. They brought back the past with a vengeance and at that moment, I was tormented with dark and tortuous thoughts: What if the woman who wrote that erotic manuscript was another Georgiana, a con woman, a liar and a cheat, a blackmailer who was pretending to be submissive, just to lure me into her web?

“What if you had arranged for your erotic manuscript to be delivered to me by the bunny girl, so that you could then enact the pantomime of begging me to return it to you? Then meet and blackmail me, just as Georgiana did?

“So now do you fully understand why I had to test your submissiveness, why I had to be completely sure about you, Miranda?” he says, then gives me his piercing guided-missile stare.

“Of course I do, Robert. But are you sure of me now? Are you?” I say, my heart beating so fast that it terrifies me, so scared am I that he’ll say no.

“Completely,” he says.

I am thrilled; then a strange thought flashes through my mind, unbidden.

“What happened to Tamara?” I ask.

He gives a start, then takes both my hands in his and kisses them.

“Robert?” I say.

“I—I am not sure how to tell you that, Miranda,” he says.

After everything he has shared with me, I can’t understand why he is so nervous.

I look at him questioningly.

He gives a sigh.

“Tamara was probably the most cold and calculating woman I have ever met in my life. Yet at the time I owed her for Pamela, so as far as I was concerned, I owed her everything,” he says.

He pauses, weighing up his next words.

“So I repaid her the only way she understood. Money. Lots of it. But that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted more,” he says finally.

“More?”

“Her self-respect.”

“How could you give her that?” I ask.

“Difficult, particularly as she had spent half her life as a professional dominatrix,” he says, with so much emphasis that I am almost afraid of what he is going to tell me next.

“So how did you . . . ?” I say.

“It wasn’t my idea. It was Georgiana’s. But I did it. I gave her a job.”

“What kind of job?” I say.

He gets up, walks toward the window, and gazes up at the night sky.

Then he turns and faces me.

“Working for me,” he says.

I am so shocked that I can’t get my next question out.

“In fact, earlier today, you spent some time with her, Miranda. With Mrs. Hatch. Tamara,” he says.

The room starts to spin, and I grab his arm to steady myself.

And remember Mrs. Hatch’s hard face, her strong handshake, her spiteful taunts, and, above all, the force and the accuracy of the first stroke of the riding crop she administered high up between my legs, and all the others that followed.

Words fail me.

Robert looks deep into my eyes.

“Don’t hate me, Miranda,” he says.

“Hate you? How can I hate you when I love you so much?” I say.

Then the thought of Mrs. Hatch, the vicious Amazon who punished me so harshly, so heavily, and with so much relish, probably guzzling her supper in the East Turret right at this very moment, makes me go dizzy again.

Seeing my reaction, Robert holds me close to him.

“Miranda, please understand this: I spent many years attempting to repay Tamara for helping me find Georgiana, and at the same time doing my best to ensure that she won’t ever betray what she knows about me, about Georgiana, about our marriage, to anyone. I’ve kept her here, in the castle, in my life, for those reasons. But I’ve done enough. I’ve fired her. She’s packed up and left, along with a large enough slice of my fortune to keep her for the rest of her life. Enough to guarantee her silence. She’s gone,” he says.

A wave of relief floods through me.

He kisses me passionately, but just as I am about to melt into his arms, he suddenly pulls away.

“You went through so much for me, Miranda, so willingly and so beautifully. But . . .”

He stops dead, searching for words, obviously concerned about my reaction to whatever he is about to say to me.

“No secrets anymore, Robert, please?” I say.

He gives a big sigh.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Miranda,” he says, “but now that Georgiana no longer stands between us, our happiness should be complete. Except for one last obstacle . . .”

I was floating high in the sky with happiness, but his words have suddenly plunged me down to earth with a bang.

“I need to help you discover why you can’t allow me to give you a full and complete orgasm,” he says.

At his words I flush scarlet.

“But I never fake coming, Robert, not ever,” I say.

“I know that, Miranda, I know now that you never fake anything,” he says, and strokes my hand.

“So then what makes you think I don’t come fully?” I say, trying hard to steady the trembling in my voice.

He pauses, and I can feel him searching for the right words, the words that won’t destroy me completely.

“I know that you are capable of coming fully,” he begins, and I brighten.

Then he goes on, “With your vibrator, yes. But never with me,” and my heart sinks.

“I’ve never reacted differently with any man,” I finally admit.

I feel him relax slightly.

Then the realization hits me: dominant, desirable, sadistic, controlling, and sexually experienced man that he is, Robert has been blaming himself for my failure to come to the full extent!

The unworthy thought
Oh, so he’s insecure underneath all that power and swagger after all
flashes through my mind, but I immediately erase it, face him, and, ashamed as I am, swallow my pride and tell him the truth. “It’s just that I can’t ever let myself completely lose control sexually. Only with my vibrator. Not with a man.”

“With a woman?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“So what is it, Miranda? What happened to you to stop you letting go with a man? What happened to stop you from trusting men?” he says, his voice shaking with emotion.

“I don’t know, Robert. I don’t know,” I say.

I’m crying now out of shame and despair and, most of all, because there is nothing I can do, no chance of changing it.

“I love you so much, Miranda, you are my love, my life, my future. Please let me help you,” he says.

Robert Hartwell means everything in the world to me. He is the love of my life, and magic. But is he a true magician? Can he really help cure me?

“Let me hypnotize you,” he says.

“Do you know how?”

I can hardly believe my eyes. The cool, superconfident, always-in-control Robert Hartwell is actually blushing.

“A youthful affair with an accomplished hypnotherapist . . .” he says.

“Were you in love with her?” I say, even now not completely able to quell my jealous nature.

“No, my darling, just with her skill as a hypnotherapist, and everything she could, and did, teach me,” he says.

“So if I let you hypnotize me, will you force me to tell you all my secrets, against my will?” I say.

“No, my darling, just listen to what you want to tell me. And I promise you that I won’t make you say or do anything you don’t want. I just want to listen,” he says.

His voice is so mellow, I am so drowsy. I’m floating along to the sound of his voice.

He asks me a series of questions, and I answer them.

As I do, in the distance I hear a voice, a child’s voice, not really my own, and yet I know deep down that it is.

“That nightmare you always have, Miranda, the one you won’t tell me about, the one that makes you wake up in tears. Tell me what happens in it, Miranda. Tell me now, please.”

His voice is so kind, so gentle.

I still don’t want to tell him, but I am floating so far, so fast, I can’t stop myself.

“I am in my playroom, playing with my dolls.”

“How old are you, Miranda?” he says gently.

“Seven. I’m seven,” I hear myself say.

“And what happens in your dream?”

“I am so happy in my playroom, my dolls are so pretty, I love them so much and I feel so safe.”

“And then?”

I burst into tears.

He dabs them away tenderly.

“And then, Miranda?” he says when I’ve recovered.

“Then I look up, there is a hole in my playroom ceiling, and a man climbs down on a rope and . . .”

I start crying again, only harder this time.

“And, Miranda . . . ?”

“And he kills me,” I say through my tears.

Robert holds me in his arms, strokes me, comforts me.

Then, very slowly, he counts down, and at the sound of his voice I wake up, feeling bright and new.

“Miranda,” he says after a few minutes, “Miranda, when you were a child of around seven, who lived upstairs from you?”

“My grandfather,” I say.